


Broken Scales

by deathbypterodactyls



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Female Chara, Male Frisk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 18:06:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5550173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathbypterodactyls/pseuds/deathbypterodactyls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps judgement can be too harsh or too lenient on the perpetrator, according to the jury. But no trials had been so skewed and misconceived such as the tale of the two delusional children. </p><p>The Lady of Justice, and the Envoy of Peace had they been named.</p><p>(Will be very, very long.)<br/>(UPD8 11/7 STILL WORKING ON THIS I'M STILL ALIVEEEE!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im writing even though im on writers block. God damn you writers block.

You hate humans, not _just_ in the 'everyone is stupid' way, but in the 'everyone should crawl up in a hole and die' way.

Infamous people noted for their malicious deeds, corrupted society, war waged on each other for petty things, these were just a few things that made humanity a horrible disease that earth had sadly caught. (It's terminal, sorry pal.) Snarling, though with a stoic face, you note down more and more things that make you dislike this pathetic race of idiots.

People created problems that don't even exist, bias directed towards things that aren't supposed to be criticized or even fucking recognized as **bad**. Problems that apparently were for 'the best' so that we can learn and never do it again, but even then there's this one portion that screws things up and proclaim that they're 'cool'. The supposed cool ones with their smug-ass faces just make you want to dig your knife into their arm and carve all the reasons why they should shut the fuck up. The thoughts of their screams, their pleas for help and mercy, distill a sense of satisfaction and for a brief amount of time, calm you down.

The sounds of bones snapping like a twig, necks twisting to a brief **snap** signaling their fate, ear-piercing screams that fills you with joy, repeatedly shoving their face into a broken mirror and hearing them cry? It makes you happy, the nagging feeling of irritation always comes and taunts you when it forces you to remember that this is all in your head.

Because of just one little setback. 

The word echoes in your head repeatedly, as if someone were to say it in a cave. It makes your skin crawl uncomfortably and you scratch it -with a bit more force than necessary- in an attempt to be rid of the feeling, and you grit your teeth instead of smashing the nearest object, because doing so would bring it to life and spill all over the floor. 

**Blood.** Red, warm, runs through your fingers and veins, turns green if you're deep underwater.

You sneer at the word and dig your dull nails into your skin, half grateful that it doesn't break through, and half rueful at how little of a threat you've been born as. 

You fucking hate blood. You know why? Because it reminds you that you're one of _them,_ one of the _things_ that despise each other everyday, the things that remind you of what they've done in the past, the things that, despite being the most intelligent race, are stupid as shit. They've turned on each other, they've killed their own and more, they've invented the worst things that have been created from the mind, and use it to their advantage.

You know what REALLY pisses you off? 

When one of them is nice or even heavenly, they're regarded as humane. As if they're not capable of hate or malice or ever doing something remotely 'bad'. 

Rage flares up in your gut and you bite down on your lip to suppress a scream. That _word_ spills from the force, and you angrily fleck it off with a thumb, ignoring the distant sense of nausea churning in your stomach. 

Fucking humans. They're stupid as shit. APPARENTLY when someone **else** is terrifying, horror inducing, and does terrible things, they're labelled as a monster. The thought makes you want to punch the person who invented that in the gut repeatedly until they vomit their breakfast, lunch and dinner and prevent them from ever eating again, leaving them to grow progressively weaker while laying on the cold hard floor until they die of starvation.

The theme of Monsters came from humans, and are apparently supposed to be the spawn of Satan. Satan and monsters (combined) compared to humanity, it shows them in a light of innocence. **This** is why when someone calls you a monster for beating an ignorant idiot up, you take it as a compliment.

Speaking of monsters...

Something warm settles in your cheeks as you sigh happily.

If humans are repulsive, then by definition monsters are clearly the more superior species. Humans are just in denial, but you're not one of them. You're different, you're logical, you're a monster. Plain as day and as clear as crystal.

And you long for the day that you climb that accursed mountain to be an immigrant, or better- just have an all out surgery! The very thought is music to your ears!

But.

You look around your little room, threadbare and having little to no colour. Decoration took up too much of your time and you convinced your parents to not come into your quiet little domain with their disruptive manner just to set up some posters of Disney movies. 

(You've always hated those.)

The parents are still watching soap operas in the middle of the night. You'll have to wait for your cue.

When they're asleep, you can leave with little to no trace. Taking anything that's not yours is out of the question, the police will just track you down and force you back into an unsatisfactory life of a damned idiot. 

Just take the essentials, and none would be the wiser. Leave through your bedroom window with your backpack, and let the excitement and adrenaline rush fuel your movements as you advance towards the mountain. It's a universal fact that when the parents sleep, the entire neighbourhood comes trailing along their footsteps. This will be easy. 

It's still going to be a good five hours until the pair falls asleep, might as well count the stars for the last time and check your belongings. You start with the latter.

Shuffling through your backpack, you prepare a mental checklist as your essentials come into view. 

Flashlight? But of course, how else will you see? Check. Food? As usual hitchhikers and travellers will bring, check. Bored games for when you get bored?

You allow yourself a giggle at your terrible joke. Definitely an essential, check.

First aid kit? Mhm, can't let a wound get infected. Check. Sandwiches for when you need a delicacy? (Hey, a girl's got to have to separate the usual food from delicious sandwiches.) Oh, most definitely checked. Sewing kit? You smile to yourself, nostalgia visiting as you remember.

You remark back when you were just four years old when you first took interest in fashion. Back then, the only type of shirt you could come up with was just a messy twist mock up of a yarn ball. It was rather silly, but you've been improving since then. After all...

You look down at your green sweatshirt with a single yellow stripe through it. Pride courses through you like an injured zebra running across a field to get away from a famished lion.

It is how you made your favourite shirt. Determination is a useful thing to have. Had you not had it, you would've given up before properly knitting a napkin.

(It has your initials on it, too! A white CDW with a contrasting black background.)


	2. Chapter 2

The air is cold and crisp when you open up your crusty window, the difference between 'vintage' and 'worn down to unsalvageable mahogany' was lost in translation. It reminds you of the moment where four year old you opened up a freezer for the first time and took a deep whiff. 

Naturally, it had no scent, but the air was so cold and refreshing that you can't help but do it again.

Any insults to your behavior and excess purple eye-shadow would be generously applied to in random places; mangled and bloody haircuts would've been free if it weren't for lack of supplies, a barely constructed form of self-control, hyper-sensitive adults, and law enforcement. 

The total cost is one dollar, ten apologies, and your dignity. I'm sorry sir, but I'll have to charge you extra for the lecture and your overfed, agitated dog.

Thoughts straying from spoiled freckled boys, you sit at your desk and place your hand on the cracked window, immersing yourself in the biting feel of the frost before pulling away to rub at it.

It feels numb. Just like how you often think of yourself to be, a beautiful ice sculpture who used to be a terrified girl hiding underneath her comforters. It was a cool and cruel wake up call from your haven to the blizzard raging outside.

But a snowball will always be more exhilarating than coffee. Just like it's better to have a little frostbite than going to the hospital from absorbing too much caffeine. Opening up a drawer and pulling out your journal, you press your dull pencil against the dirt ridden- _you dust it off quickly. How shameful of you to ignore this flaw_ pages and start to write.

_Entry one- Frosted over win_

Wait, what was that?

You halt your writing and press a hand against the window pane again.

Frost. It was frost. By _god_ you are so slow.

Looking outside, you see that already a thin white blanket has covered the lawn like a linen sheet covering a face, snowflakes lazily floating down onto the ground akin to the beach waves sloshing against the cliff face. Against your better judgement, you take a deep whiff. It smells like your room, all pine and lavender and tree tea oil, although you can detect a bit of cold affecting it -just a little- and you know for a fact it'll grow even colder. 

How... 'Bad luck' better have some health insurance and twelve ambulances on their way, because you are going to do some intriguing rituals featuring Hannibal Lecter and a pinch of pollen from your local gardens. **Fuck. You.**

Your eyes flick around the mostly empty room for some sort of clue that could've led you to this crucial mistake before it lands on your TV, dust covering the screen and only a few swipes of the hand were lazily used to be rid of the dust. 

He... that incompetent weather man couldn't even predict a FEW flakes of frost? Not even a warning or a slight percentage of this happening?!

You...

Clack. Clack.

You detect a change in your environment. Resounding clacking on the wooden floor growing ever closer, scents of various citrus increasing in pungency. 

"Oh, Cassandra dear!" a honeyed voice calls out your disgusting name, sweeter than pixi stix and holds the toxicity to kill someone of your age. You feel something warm fill in your chest like gasoline being poured down someone's throat and into their stomach.

Maybe... maybe you can let her in? You always needed to improve on your intimidation skills. She's always been good at those, even if she never accepted it as fact. 

Well, you can't exactly blame her for having that mindset, her type of personality wouldn't dictate that sort of thing, since brutality and an air of condescending, yet powerful presence would usually factor into the definition. Generally speaking. 

But you know it's there. You've seen it countless of times before.

Or better yet, you can mince with her to improve your dexterity. Despite her effortless finesse and agility to mince a tomato in 3 seconds tops you suspect that- no, you KNOW that her skills outweigh yours by a landslide, even though you practice several times a week.

You still think that one day, she would use this skill against you if you were to ever step out of line or if aggravation were to stroke her nerves. Despite your strong sense of misanthropy, she's one of the people that you truly respect. 

And maybe fear.

Amidst your rant your eyes never fail to ruin your excitement by catching sight of the snow falling outside. They even remind you of what you have to do via worn, slightly ripped leather and that glinting piece of metal on your desk. Freshly sharpened and eager for blood, that much you can tell. 

Sigh. Thank you, brain. For reminding you of what you have to do and what you need to do in order to get it. But...

She knocks on your door periodically, daintily, hastily.

"Hello? Cassie, dear. It's your mother speaking! Would you like to make minced mushrooms for your father?"

...No, she can't come in. No matter how much you want to let her. Just keep it formal, to the point, and answer her enquiries and requests with 'I'm busy' and 'No thank you'. You'll make this quick for sure, talkative mothers aren't hard to dispose of. Antisocial daughters aren't hard to isolate.

Lifting yourself from the air mattress, you make your way over to the peeling, rotten door and take a deep breath. Alright, you know the drill, start ticking off the steps for this. 

Keep a vice grip on the handle, steel your ribs for incessant palpitations (averse from reaching up your hand to manually calm it down), grit your teeth (though hide it with your lips to avoid giving off threatened vibes) to relieve stress if you deem it necessary. Position and endure your leg against the door for good measure. Keep your eyesight straight ahead and just to the side of her, do not make direct eye contact. Maintain your composure.

You've only got so much time. You can't risk waiting and hoping for the snow to thaw out or slow down for it to simply turn the dirt into a muddy swamp for you to sneer at. In fact...

You slip glance at the window again, it's seem to have developed another window, albeit not out of sand. The snow blanket -although you're not sure- might've gotten thicker. It's coming down even harder... so much so that you're afraid that it'll start hailing.

And that'll become the real problem here, right alongside a snowstorm.

You need to hurry. Father will be sleeping soon, mother will be too, whether through your steel or her bed. 

Except not. Because that'd cause too much discord throughout the community. Who knows? Perhaps you'll need to call some of your connections for a bit of help. Even though you loathe them. A lot. 

Opening the door (but in a way so that she can only see half your face), your nose curls up at the acute sense of orange and raspberries, despite this, you keep your voice modulated and smooth. Direct vision focusing off to the side and on the dragon picture behind her, with a few of her golden curls obscuring the view and her red lips apparent out of the corner of your eye. "What is it, mother?"

She grins and you refuse to squirm in your place. Who are you to leave a vulnerable impression just before your departure? "Daaaarling~! It's snowing outside!"

Well, that certainly cements your conclusion into place. Sometimes you suspect that she can read your mind and refute it accordingly. It's a delightful thought, but sadly not plausible. 

"I can see that. And just for the record, I'm NOT going to go outside and play in the snow like an 8 year old. Not with you or father."

She pouts, the red lipstick is likely to smear. She can pretend that she politely ate the carcass of a bear. Lipstick and blood are two very different things, but it's another nice thought to add to her image.

"Awwh... I was hoping we can get some family time. Especially in a condition such as this!"

Augh. Finish that sentence for her before you lose your mind.

"But it seems-"

"That I am busy, as usual." How many times has she said that? Enough to think that it's the only words in her observational vocabulary. You may respect your mother, but she needs to get some new material. Seriously, you'd prefer Prometheus' punishment over this. "Is that all?" 

Let this be done with, you still need to sort out your belongings, she needs to sort out her stack of paintings. You're both on a tight schedule here. Besides, no matter how much you LOVE your mother, that repulsive perfume is getting to your head and is likely to diffuse evenly throughout your room. It'll take a few days of tea tree oil and peppermint to override even one third of the stench...

She casts her head to the side, thinking it over. Paranoia can speak for itself, but is she dragging this out just for a few moments of contact? "Well..."

You're not dealing with this. This will not be a thorn in your lungs along with the weather. "Get on with it. I don't have all day."

You can't see it, but she's likely to be twiddling her thumbs. Strange habit that you've noticed recently. "Do you..." Hesitance. Bites lip. Stalling. She probably knows. 

"Want to..." Wait, what- no. Say it and your lifespan will be ten heartbeats away from death. You will slice open her heart, put several marbles in her pulmonary artery and stuff maggots into her left ventricle to reproduce and thrive, the hives main couple will live the stereotypical life of king and queen. Until their nosy daughter is born whom is a pretentious and inexperienced stunt-woman that listens to Halsey and Fall Out Boy. Should've aborted back when ivory was still legal and you two were still sex symbols.

"Build," Your blood will stand out in the snow like a decapitated head in a field of sore thumbs. Killing you here is a terrible idea, you don't even know how to properly sanitize blood stain areas from carpet _or_ wood. 

Groaaan.

You are an utter disgrace to the earth. How can you proclaim yourself as talented when you don't even know how to sanitize a blood stain?

"A snow-" 

You are temporarily dead to me.

"No."

And you shut the door on her, heaving out a deep breath you didn't realize you were holding in. You'll be more self aware next time. But for now, you'll be getting on with your work.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HELLO SORRY I HAVENT POSTED IN LIKE MONTHS! I've been battling with writer's anxiety and just generally thrashing hysterically all over the place on how to go about this but I think I'll try to update more often! For now this is just a little something I whipped up.
> 
> Like, a WHOLE LOT MORE OFTEN. You guys deserve it. Probably thinking that I've cooked up a few chapters on some of my works? *Laughs nervously* Nope. Just silent panic and inner conflict ;u;. But I'll try to produce more work from now on, thinking of Saturdays. 
> 
> In the meantime, how about you guys give me some things you'd like to see or which of my other works would you like more of? It'd be a great booster! But I think that's all for now, see you later!

_Run, girl._

This wasn't supposed to happen.

Ducking your head underneath a low hanging snow covered branch, you continue to try to look for an opening- any opening to get out of this mess and to hide yourself in the cover of the weather.

You hear a faint voice in the distance, reminiscent of your hide and seek games before you've changed. Too audible for comfort, someone shouts, "I think she went this way!" sparking the direction of the flashlights to hone in on an area just a little ways behind you to lick up the barely there footprints like dogs. 

You try to jump over a large puddle but it ends up short and splashes onto your jeans, even worse, there's an area of bog and mud in the now deep puddle, generously sinking its slovenly mouth a ways up until just below your knee, caking itself onto the front your boot and catching the attention of the a member of the search party as your mind briefly turns numb with shock and hypothermia. 

A beam of searing light touches the back of your head and forces you out of your shock. "There she is! Guys, I've found her!"

You duck out of sight before they can catch you, cold ears just barely catching the shout of, "Where is she, you ass?!" before changing to a new direction to reach your goal. More trees, more obstacles, more terror.

It's too white, too blinding, and you can only make out the silhouette of the trees, but not much further than that. The white void howls again, its frosty breath freezing your already flushed face, cold air being sucked up through your nose makes itself known in your body and, more gravely, your throat.

"I think she went this way!"

Fear of getting caught.

Trepidation of where you're going.

Anger at the stray nocturnal strangers catching a glimpse of you.

Hope for your cause.

Determination for yourself.

The snow was swallowing up the entire night sky, white replacing the usual midnight blue, turning it into a mockery of heaven despite your soul falling back into hell. How had it fallen so fast? With every minute it seemed to get worse.

Another voice. Another person who seems to 'care' about you. "We'll catch her..."

You're trying to ignore the quaking to your waterlogged boots after an encounter with thin ice on a pond and now with the mud falling inside and meshing together with the water. You try to shake some out with every chilling step from the icy and filthy mix that submerges your feet from the front of your shin to the ankle down, but it just sloshes it around like muddy sludge that pigs would enjoy.

Your sleeves were ripped from unforeseen branches, eyes are squinting in vain to see _something,_ nose nursing some icicles, and your only source of heat- a pain induced warmth from a slash at the skin, drawing _red-_ had nearly been blanked out by white.

Tarnishing, damning white.

Your hair might as well not exist, at least, not as an insulator but as a flag. It's being thrashed back and forth so rapidly by the storm that it can't keep neither neck nor face warm, whipping your cheeks like a cat-o'-nine-tails.

Another voice rings out, hope rising as your despair hammers at the wall of your chest like a sledgehammer on molten iron, with absolutely no intent of letting it cool. It's hammering away with its intent to see it break apart from the prolonged pressure. "I think I hear her! Follow me!"

Tongues of light that used to be lost are now swiveling in your general direction, around and near your feet once again, not too unlike lasers- the moment it touches you, it ends, and you'd have accomplished nothing. They lap and caress the fallen branches near old but strong trees, searching for a sign of you, worried, as if they weren't seeking to send you back to the place that leaves you so dissatisfied for something more.

It didn't cause any bodily harm, but its light now causes some threat to your physiological health like it did before. You're suffering from cardiac arrest and soon a heart attack, the fact that you're running isn't helping, and the fact that they're directly behind the leather of your boots is _definitely_ a clear sign of wishing you eternal fear.

Flashlights are condescending, you decide.

You keep running, the surely present tears in the muscles of your legs complaining at the lack of rest retains its pain, a reminder that your legs haven't been lost to the snow, that they're still there. With the welcoming yet aching pain induced heat? You're sure you would at least get to the point where you can see it up close, even if you collapse in front of its rotting, wooden entrance.

Your pants feel too much of an obstruction now, providing little protection from the punishing whips of the wind and retaining little to no heat. It is merely cloth now, hanging at your legs and susceptible to snagging on a camouflaged brush, tearing a piece of scrap of cloth from it, where they'll surely find your trail and capture you.

Your face will be slapped by the evergreen leaves and they'll see the movement and hear the shouts of curses and corner you.

It can't be just you, you're never paranoid, and you will never BE paranoid!

You grit your teeth so aggressively you can almost hear it.

**You won't allow it!**

The next words are like a blessing on your ears. "Hey, stop! That's the..."

The rest fade out to you. You can no longer feel or hear the wind, almost as if its howls had quieted themselves to an eerie whisper, covering you from the mob and welcoming you to your rightful home after its trials and tribulations. It twists its line of hail and snow out of the way so you can properly look at your objective, your Savior,

Your _God._

Its imposing silhouette rises with its open arms to greet your arrival, doing so in such a way that it makes you think it's been waiting there for a millennia to do so. The predicted signs and rotten wood arch proclaiming warnings and its name are just as welcome.

"Everyone, stop! It's too late now!"

_Finally._

"She's probably dead now."

Step one complete.

**_MT. EBOTT._ **


	4. Chapter 4

You hear shouts in the distance at the bottom of the mountain. 

Buckle.

You hear them calling your name- your real name. 

Hesitate.

You hear them calling you names.

Deep breaths.

You hear the wind tunneling all around the hole into the abyss, beckoning.

Jump. 

You hesitate again.

Jump.

Your legs lock into place. What if you don’t survive? What if there’s nothing down there after all? There may just be rats and rot and trash down-

A voice shrieks at you.

_**Jump, you coward!** _

Before you knew it, your leg slips off the edge and the ledge scrapes your shin on the way down some vines and ivy, nearly snagging on the overgrowth.

Dear?

Fall.

_Darling. Why did you leave us?_

Falling.

_Were you unhappy?_

I̶ ̶w̶a̶s̶.̶ Fa lling.

_We can fix things…_

Y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶'̶t̶.̶ Fa l li ng?

**Brat.**

Falling…?!

**Useless. Wake up and see the darkness.**

_Oh, God!_

You snap back into reality of actually plummeting to your death. Your heart begins to come back too- and it starts wildly battering and beating at your chest- THROUGH the chest and against its cage to scream for help. 

_No! This wasn’t what I wanted!_

Your eyes try to dart around every which way to look for something to grab onto- a vine or SOMETHING, but the crushing force of gravity forces it to look down. You close them immediately and feel your own tears making the corners of your eyes raw. You’re too scared to even try to wipe them away. Those movies lied to you, you can’t move no matter what you do, the air putting your limbs back into place and rendering it weak.

**What did you want, brat?! Delusional dreams?!**

Your heart has leapt up to your throat to try to escape and you try to swallow it down, but the air keeps getting ripped from you every time you try to take a breath- like a dog chained to a pole and its cruel owner dangling its treat right in front of it until its neck was sore and bleeding from the metal digging into its skin.

_I need..!_

_What do you need, sweetie?_

**Stop asking for shit, brat.**

You need-

Something is in the distance, patches of yellow.

_That’s the ground._

You lock up and before you even knew it, it’s right in front of you, giving an unwelcome hug from the rotting leaves.

**Hel-**

You scream but all that comes out is something voiceless and weak. Your air has been ripped from you, your stomach burns too much, and you can’t breathe- in or out.   
It feels numb for a little while, and slowly- but all at once does the pain come crashing back onto your body.

You cry out, breaths hinging on labored breaths and sobbing, clogging up your throat and attacking your tonsils. You feel an uncomfortable burning behind your eyes. **“I-i…-t fuh, fuh-fuckingg hur-…!”**

 **Please...!**

You wheeze out what little air you have and sob. Your collarbones have been broken, it’s marred, and it’s _bleeding. You’re bleeding…!_

And you’re too afraid of worsening your condition to even curl up on yourself to get some comfort. Your chest heaves erratically and you try to ignore your broken nose bleeding on the leaves, it felt every bit as broken as it should feel as numb. “M-Mom…”

_Sleep dear._

“…Dy…! I’m…”

_Sleep and forget._

“W… hoa! …Mom!”

_Sleep and heal._

You hear footsteps. Or was it clops?

“…Mom! ..uick… down..!”

_Mom…_

You hear a shriek. _“..My…! Dear…?”_

_Mom…?_

_“Dear…! …ith us!”_

_Cha…_

_Your head is grasped by something white and smooth like velvet, gently guiding you to look up to a muzzle._

_Sweets…_

_“…y….hild..!”_

_Sweet dreams._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cielaweilawhebvkdc  
> I'll try to upd9 more often...! T_T A new year in school and things are gonna have to get used to...


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